


You Make Me Feel So Young

by AUO



Series: Very Hot and Real Thirsty [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AUO/pseuds/AUO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Darling, darling, darling... Forgive yourself enough to be just a little bit selfish." - Reol (Halcyon)</p><p>Marx has always striven to be like his father - in all ways but one. Being engaged dregs up old memories, and he learns to loosen the shackles of his past.</p><p>*Cross-posted from tumblr; original Kamui as seen in my other fic "Coronation"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Make Me Feel So Young

**Author's Note:**

> This is based of a hc I have of Marx/Xander that he was a lanky lil nerd as a child, but was an early bloomer and already almost full grown at 15, making everyone see him not as the child he was, but as a full grown man already. Related to that, everyone also thought there'd be a bunch of royal bastards because Marx is a looker and he is his father's son..... luckily, his mama raised him better than that.

“Can I kiss you?”

The steady scratching of quill on parchment stops abruptly as he processes his wife’s - no, fiancee’s - request. He takes off his reading glasses and blinks at her slowly. Because surely he’d kissed her, hadn’t he? After all these years for yearning for her, of being confined to “brotherly” displays of affection - and pushing that line even so, in the throes of his desperation - surely he had at least kissed her after proposing.

But no, he remembers, he hadn’t. They’d slept together, yes, but not _slept together,_ afterward; Madora pulling him against her tightly, clinging to him, and he remembers how it felt to have her small arms around him and her leg hiked up over his own hip, as if trying to pull them closer than physically possible. He remembers that her hair smelled faintly of hydrangeas still, and remembers wondering if she would still wear flowers in her hair now that she had a crown. He remembers how comfortable it was in her embrace at last, no longer sick with guilt over his own feelings, his own indulgence in her, that he was easily drawn into sleep despite his stiff day clothes. He remembers how he didn’t remember what it was like to be at ease enough to allow himself to rest. He remembers that she was enough. Was always enough. Would always be enough.

He remembers how it felt - how it feels - to be loved by his entire world.

But he doesn’t remember kissing her. And he pauses, because he’s surprised at himself.

But more than that, he’s surprised that she asked. Not that she wanted a kiss - he was, after all, her (unattendant, forgetful, neglectful, undeserving - he berates himself) fiance. But that she asked.

He wonders what exactly he should do. Kiss her, obviously. He wants to show her how much he loves her, wants to pin her against the sofa she perches on, wants to crash his lips into hers and show her how much he wants her, needs her. But he wonders if she wants him like that, if he’d be too overwhelming, if he’s being selfish.

In the end, all he can do is nod with a terse, “Of course.”

She must think him cold.

It’s a tragedy, when it’s her that makes him feel like the sun.

He wonders if she still even wants to with such a response. But she does, stands taller, smooths her already straight skirt, and strides toward him on careful toes, heels not clicking even against the stone floors.

And then she’s right before him, barely taller than him even though he’s sitting. He wonders if he should move to stand, but her fingers are pressed firmly against his jaw, and her eyes flutter shut and that’s the last thing he sees because he closes his too and-

Her lips are soft.

Like a falling leaf grazing the skin on a brisk autumn morning. Like a dandelion puff tenuously returning to the earth. Like well worn rose petals in an old bouquet.

Like a concept, memory of images of things once felt, and no longer tangible even in the safety of his mind.

It is surprising, though he knows she is gentle.

It is surprising because she, more than he could ever hope to be, was a conqueror. It was she, not he, who could take what she pleased. It was she who forced the world to acknowledge her, who bent the very cosmos themselves at the cost of herself to create what should not exist. A miracle to create a miracle. It is she who yearns for that above her station and it is she who knows the true form of a conqueror - not proud and eloquent and mighty, but desperate and visceral and animal.

Father’s mistake was not making her his conqueror, his champion of Nohr. Whatever sickness of the mind addled him in these recent years, surely it would have been satiated if only he had chosen someone that could actually bring him the world.

She alone had stood before him and without hesitation - without regard to position or history or fate - had meticulously made an incision, peeled back his rib cage, and smiled triumphantly as she saw the way his heart beat in her wake.

But she had asked now, instead of taken.

And it felt like she was putting him back together. Oh, he wouldn’t have minded being flayed in front of her, but it is this gentleness, that seeming contradiction of her being is what seals his fate.

It feels like mercy.

And like a misericorde finding its mark, she presses her lips against his for only a moment, and pulls away as if that were enough.

For her. For him. For either of them. And it is, conceptually. But they have lived their lives like beggars looking for the crumbs of each others’ affection and now what they have is infinity.

(Well, almost, as soon as he finishes that damn paperwork, he thinks, but the paperwork can wait - anything can wait in light of his wife. ~~Fiancee.~~ _Wife._ )

And there is a single moment from the time she leaves his lips, and he sees her eyes half lidded, looking down, lips still slightly parted, corners turned up into a smile that looks like a secret. And it is a trick of the moment, of the frozen time bliss brings he is sure, but she looks like peace and he feels his heart pound and the immortal wound she’s gifted him with throb and then his lips are on hers again.

He tries to be gentle as she was, tries to hold back his desperation, but it feels like a frantic apology and perhaps that is what it is because he is sorry, so sorry he hadn’t been the one to kiss her, that she had to stoop to asking.

When they separate she gives him a small, awkward hug and he knows she doesn’t want to let go, but still she murmurs, “You should get back to work,” into his chest. And then they part again, but he can’t bring himself to move his hand from her and it slides across the small of her back, over the curve of her hip as she backs away. It dips when she turns, with nothing to hold onto, leaving him reaching for her. And she tosses her hair as she walks and a violet lock brushes against that outstretched hand and he can’t let her go just yet, even if she’s still there, even if they aren’t separated by circumstance anymore, he still can’t bear the thought of being without her right now.

“Would you like to sit with me?” he asks, catching her by the arm, sliding his hand down into hers, lacing their fingers together. She pauses a moment, surprised, and he brings the back of her hand up to brush against the side of his face, unable to resist his eyes narrowing like a cat in the sun at her touch. And her face softens, lips curling once more, and she slides her thumb across his cheekbones with a small, “Of course.”

He picks her up and plops her onto his lap when he sits, chin resting atop her head, one arm tight around her waist while the other rests on his desk looping fine cursive onto parchment. “You are my wife,” he murmurs against her hair, “do not hesitate to ask anything of me.” She nods but he knows those words shouldn’t be directed at her.

No more than five minutes later comes the question, phrased like a loop, as if it’s been rolling around in her head, on the tip of her tongue, this whole time - “-Again. Can I kiss you again?” And there is no hesitation this time. He is still shamed, quill long silent in anticipation of that question, mind reading a single line over and over, unable to comprehend the words on the page, thoughts of his wife’s soft lips dancing through his mind.

So when the question that seemed to resound silently through the room was finally voiced again, he offers a soft, “Mm,” in approval in the back of his throat and already has fingers against her jaw, softly, tilting her head to the side so he can press his lips against hers once more; better this time - or so he hopes, for her sake - less tepid and virginal, mouth moving against hers, feeling all the ways they fit together, like searching those countless years of silence for words that were never said, trying to convey all the words he should’ve offered up to her. And then he separates in the loosest sense of the word, lips still barely touching hers as he sighs against her, breath heavy and thick in his lungs. And he knows he should be finishing that paperwork, that she wants him to finish that paperwork, so that this could be official, so that they could consummate - his mind chokes at the mere thought of the word, of the promise of tonight, _oh ancestors, **tonight**_ \- their marriage. Well. He doubts either of them could hold out any longer even if he shirked his responsibilities here - but still, Madora deserves this at least, silly flimsy piece of paper though it may be; still, no one could deny her any longer with it.

And so he lingers at her lips as if trying to freeze that frame between them, of the feeling of glorious abolishment of restraint. And it is she who breaks the stillness, the heaviness in the room once more, lips already brushing his as she asks her question. She cannot voice more than two syllables before he is on her again, turning her around fully in his lap, pressing her against his desk, and any refinement found in his last kiss is gone as he moves as if to devour her. Well, two steps forward, one step back, as they say.

She is more eloquent than him. Not less wanting, he feels, nor gentle - but she kisses him with more purpose, more poise, as if she knows exactly what she wants from him, wants this to be. And he knows he is clumsy compared to her, and can only hope he isn’t a disappointment, but even so - even so she is patient with him, at least, mouth moving deliberately against his frantic motions, easing him into an easy rhythm, filing down the rough edges of his desire. Yet every time he separates the question is on her tongue again, like she is afraid this would be the last time, like she really was like him, not believing this was really happening. And he tries to quell that maybe fear, tries to tell her that there is no line she could push, no way that he could ever deny his sweet sweet wife, especially of something that was rightfully hers and he - he has always been hers. And so he presses his lips back into hers every time her question is asked until there isn’t any more time between them, nor any separation, and she dazedly mouths her question still against his lips, an automatic response, like she was drowning against him and that was her gasp for air.

And he separates once more, forehead against hers, and looks into her eyes just before she voices that infernal question, and he must look truly sincere - or perhaps desperate - because she closes her mouth silently. “I love you,” is all that he says, and he means more than that. He means that he isn’t lonely anymore. That he feels like he can live again, is living again. That existing isn’t simply another one of his many duties. That she is more precious to him than the revered moonlight or the rare sun and a hundred other things only poets and their careful wordsmithing could convey. And he supposes he means just that - that he loves her. Wholly, unconditionally. That there will be no point in time where he would ever deny or reject his loving wife, no matter what she asked for or how many times she asked for it; that there was nothing he would not, could not do for her.

She opens her mouth once more, but no words come. Instead her lips settle with an exhale of breath, and he can tell she is biting her bottom lip from inside her mouth and it’s an expression he hasn’t seen on her in years. It’s earnest and searching and open. The way she’d look at him after he returned from one of his long absences, and seeing that look on her face, he knows, and that alone would be enough. But - without a word or even her question - she wraps her arms around his neck, laces fingers in his hair, and presses her lips against his again.

And then her lips part - not the almost part of relaxed lips accepting another’s kiss, but a true part - and her tongue slips out to graze his bottom lip. And it is a question, yes, but more than that it is an invitation. And perhaps something shouldn’t have this effect, but coming from her after so long - it feels as sultry and decadent as if he had spied her in her boudoir, perfumed and half-dressed, and she - she was beckoning to him.

And, truth be told, he almost resists. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he invariably, wantonly, _does_. And there is an imprint in his mind and brings about an almost guilt over what he’s doing - only rectified by the fact his desire vastly outweighs his past. Outweighs all the servants’ gossip, the whispers of a second coming of royal bastards, of how history would repeat itself because the king’s heir was too handsome for his own good - that he had his father’s blood and that that blood would curse him with superfluous desire and all the ruin that followed. It outweighed the stubborn desire not to be his father in that way, at least, and the animalistic - no, outright beastly - connotations he adopted from such talk, for acknowledging any selfish desire or want, even those outside the flesh.

And now he’s here, sloppily kissing his wife, tongue against tongue in an unseemly manner, exploring each other’s mouths in a way that can’t feel good except for the fact that it’s happening, and for the first time, selfish desire is being fulfilled. Except to people who don’t know any better; to people who are satisfied with simply having their desires finally, finally fulfilled. He traces circles into her hips, calloused fingertips catching on the soft fabric. And then her hands aren’t at his head anymore, but on his rough hands, dragging them up across her torso, and onto her her breasts. His mind goes blank because she is soft even with the stiff fabric of her bodice separating them; he didn’t realize just how soft she was. And he thinks of her like a piece of art and that he shouldn’t be touching her, especially with his too rough hands, but she looks at him earnestly again, eyes half lidded now as she puts pressure on his hands, urging him to squeeze. She pants softly as he fondles her, pressing even closer to him and shoving her face into the crook of his neck to muffle a moan when he tweaks her nipples through her dress.

He tilts her head up to kiss her again, wanting to taste that sweet song of hers instead of having it silenced against him - and they are steady this time, less frenzied, hunger somewhat placated with that barrier crossed, able to start making sense of how to refine their hormonal urges to an art. Teeth still bump sometimes, breath taken through the mouth for a second, giggling against each other as they separate to breathe proper; but still, they are learning, and none a better teacher to each other than one another. Hands trail against her body, paving new trails from hip to bust - and her hands are on him too, and he curses himself for only taking the neck and shoulder pieces off his full regalia. Still, he doesn’t know how much he’d be able to take if his armor wasn’t there,  already embarrassed by the straining bulge in his pants sandwiched between their bodies; one hand already perched on her thigh, an inch from the band of her panties and rubbing circles upward, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

And then she bucks her hips, grinding into his cock slowly, as she kisses his neck, and the sound that comes from his throat is more growl than moan as she lowers herself back down. She grazes his hand purposefully, letting him feel her wetness from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. And his mind seems blank and reeling with the blood flowing through (out of?) his brain, and the room is too hot and his armor is too tight, especially his pants, and gods he doesn’t even have armor there what is he even thinking and-

He gets up abruptly, leaving his wife in a similarly feverish haze perched backwards on his chair, to lock the door. It was a bad thing to do, he knows. To leave his wife for even a moment, especially like this, was unacceptable. Still, he did it. Not because of Pieri or Lazaward walking in, no - he doesn’t think he’d mind if they did happen to see him lavishing love upon his newlywed wife. But, rather, he had to remind himself that this was his space; there were no prying eyes to be found in his study, no servants to speak ill of him, nothing to keep him from spoiling his wife as she so deserved - his father’s son he may be, but he was not his father. Picking her up with a nuzzle into her neck and a playful nip on the shell of her pointed ear, he steels himself to give her everything he is now, unburdened by the small self-conscious boy everyone thought was only bred to uphold a king’s legacy - no matter how glorious or ill.

And with that, he all but tosses her onto the chaise lounge and pounces on her, as he should’ve done from the start.

On top of her, pressing her into the cushions, tongue against tongue, rutting into each other, he wonders what those maids would think of him if they saw him now. He wants to tell them that they were right, that he was every inch as weak and hormonal as they thought him; that he was cursed with superfluous desire, but, blessedly, that desire was showered on one and one alone.

“Marx… Do you want…?” she manages in between breaths, and her question isn’t finished, but her eyes flicker to the bedroom and his heart jumps. And he should. He should because he does want. But she deserves better than this. She is going without all the pomp and circumstance she deserves, lacking even a dress, even the congratulations of their peers, and all in the middle of a war. Even if he wanted it, even if she wanted it, it’s heresy to take her wedding night from her too.

“No,” he starts and then adds hurriedly, “Tonight,” and places a careful kiss to her lips, hoping the hand at her waist incessantly touching as if his hands could wear down the twill of her dress the way the ocean erodes a cliffside conveys his feelings proper. But when he pulls away she is smiling in a way she simply doesn’t - or never used to before. With her eyebrows knit and her teeth pressing into her the inside of her bottom lip like she’s trying to keep from smiling, but the corners of her lips are still upturned despite it.

And he realizes - he’s enough. No matter what shortcomings he views in himself, they don’t matter to her.

And she presses her lips against his again and wraps her legs around him, pulling him back into the infinity her embrace promises. And she may deserve better, more, but she is happy just like this. And he will give her better, more, tonight but right now-

Right now he will kiss her sloppily and indulge in the sweetness of youth, finally found again in her arms.


End file.
